Watch It Burn
by comatose51
Summary: Erik has succumbed to grief following the loss of Christine. Allowing his life to spiral, alcohol has become his only companion. On a particularly difficult evening, he discovers something that brings his heart roaring back to life - Christine is in danger, and he has become her only hope.
1. Chapter 1

**Ladies and gents, welcome to Watch It Burn! This is a story that has been lurking at the back of my mind for several years now. I pray that I can do the magnificent tale justice. **

**A few things to note before we begin: This story is rated M. I find Erik to be an intense character; to tone down his aggression and intensity would be a defamation to the complicated character that he is. There will be elements of violence, language, and sexuality. You have been warned. **

**The characters in this story are modeled after the 2004 film depiction (Gerry Butler as Erik, Emmy Rossum as Christine, etc etc . . .).**

**This story begins two years after the end of the 2004 film, also taking on a bit of Love Never Dies, assuming that Christine returned to Erik the night before her wedding to our lovely Raoul. **

**I love and respect Raoul and will do him justice in these chapters. Though I love Erik and Christine, I fully understand why she chose Raoul and his promise of stability. There will be no Raoul bashing here! **

**Without further ado, here it is. Please enjoy and let me know if I have made any mistakes. I am doing this solo. **

The sound of shattered glass tore through the murky silence. The tinkling of tiny shards colliding with damp stone followed shortly, a cacophony of noise echoing emptily throughout the cavern. The reverberations died down slowly, leaving only the heaving breaths of the man who had hurled the empty bottle of whisky. A string of profanity soon escaped parted lips as his throbbing migraine worsened in response to the rash action. He stumbled backward, arm falling limply to his side, and collapsed onto the organ bench in defeat.

The whisky had been a welcome addition to Erik's wretched evening. The amber liquid had scorched down his throat, bringing with it a numbness that he so desperately needed. Though he would rather die than admit the fact, the alcohol had become a savior and a shield that guarded him from decidedly . . . _painful _memories. This evening had been particularly difficult. He had been plagued with never-ending thoughts of Christine. Her wide, innocent eyes shone with tears in his memory. She was walking towards him slowly . . . Reaching for his hand . . . Taking it tenderly, only to deposit the gleaming ring . . . backing away with pain in her gaze . . . And she was gone, escaping on his boat with the damned Vicomte . . .

Erik snarled in rage, shoving himself off the bench. Stumbling only slightly, he stormed to the cupboards and practically tore the grimy curtain from its rod in feverish haste. He scoured the shelves desperately, shoving bottle after empty bottle aside, fruitless in his efforts.

"DAMN you!" he fumed, slamming a clenched fist against the creaking wood. It splintered effortlessly against his violent hit. Before he could react, bottles toppled to the floor and the silence was once again mangled by the dreadful sound of breaking glass.

Though he was late to respond, Erik made a slurred attempt to catch a bottle. His vision swam, and before he knew it, he was falling directly into the mess of glass. In a moment of rare panic, he thought of his hands; they were all he had left. They were the only portion of his horrid body that he could stand. Twisting, he tucked his hands against his chest and landed heavily on his shoulder. Sweet pain, warm and stinging, slid up his arm drunkenly. A hiss escaped his cracked lips. Relishing in his momentary weakness, images of Christine made their way into his mind once again, and they were the most agonizing memories of them all . . .

Her lips were moving against his. Her fingers were clenched in fistfuls of his shirt. Erik's hands were pressed to the small of her back, pulling her close to his body . . . And then she was lying down, pale skin gleaming against the crushed velvet of the bed . . . And he was over her, descending to kiss her once more, fevered and anticipant –

"NO!" Erik erupted, staggering to his feet once again. Crimson blood pooled through his soiled shirt, small trickles dripping from the ends of his fingers. He embraced the slow burn as a welcome distraction from Christine's comparatively scalding presence in his thoughts. Teeth bared, Erik ignored his wounds and stormed for the entrance to the labyrinth that connected his elusive lair to the outside world. Seizing a large bag of coins and his cloak along the way, he pressed a white half mask to the disfigured side of his face and plunged into the darkness that he had once known as home . . . if having a home were a possibility for a _monster_.

He knew each twist and turn by memory and had no troubles navigating the tunnels. They were, however, rather complicated while one was drunk. Gritting his teeth as the tumultuous migraine reached a new peak, he tried to focus through the alcohol-induced haze and speed up his pace, winding through the familiar tunnels on pure instinct. All the while, Christine's ghost followed his every step.

The darkness had once been a friend and welcome companion. And now, all it held was the lurking demons of his past, ready to spring at the first chance they received, claws grasping at his throat and digging for his heart. Christine had once been all that Erik could think of, a sweet rose amidst the thorns of his life. The mere glimpse of her in his mind's eye was now enough to drive him positively mad with grief and unbearable agony.

It was an admitted relief for Erik when he finally stepped into the crisp evening air. He was met by an excited whicker from Cesar, who stamped his foot and pranced in greeting. Inhaling deeply, Erik approached the stallion and gave him a solid pat on the neck, haphazardly throwing the saddle and blanket onto his back. Too impatient and irritated to even think about the bridle, Erik swung into the saddle and dug his heels into Cesar's sides, winding knots of mane into his gloveless fingers. Cesar responded eagerly, rearing slightly and erupting with speed into the streets. A marvelous horse, indeed.

The whipping wind seemed to chisel away at Erik's inebriation, and soon sobriety began to gleam through the cracks. It was not a welcome thing.

A new stream of foul language slipped from his mouth, and Erik urged Cesar even faster. He needn't worry; the brilliant creature knew exactly where his master was guiding him. Soon enough, Cesar slid to a startling halt in front of the city's seediest tavern, shaking his head triumphantly. Erik leapt from the saddle and landed gracefully despite his haste. Throwing the reins over a hitching post out front, he strode to the front door and swung it open with more force than necessary.

The smell of the tavern was akin to a brick wall. Alcohol, the stench of body odor, and the perfume of whores greeted Erik's nostrils as he passed the entryway. The response was instantaneous; three prostitutes approached him swiftly, flashing their smiles gaily and adjusting their bodices to plump their breasts.

"Hello there, _miseur_," the first one purred. "Fancy a lady tonight? I've got a special offer, just for you."

Erik sneered, amused at the blatant suspicion in her eyes as she observed his half-mask, pitifully attempting to be secretive. On any normal night, he cloaked the right side of his face in hooded black as to avoid stares and unwanted attention. He was recklessly desperate this evening and had disregarded all precautions. This was no worrisome matter. The legend of the Phantom of the Opera was well known, but this common folk could never have afforded an evening at the opera. And so, the legend remained just that – a legend. Chuckling to himself, he glared in the woman's direction.

"Madame," he murmured, voice barely audible above the racket of the tavern, "_if_ I ever fancied a lady . . ." he placed a finger under the woman's chin, pulling her gaze to meet his burning emerald eyes. "She certainly would never reduce herself to the shame of opening her legs to every man who entered this bar."

He caught her flying hand before it contacted his face. Making a disapproving "tssk" noise, he threw her arm to the side, causing her to stumble.

"Oi, oi, oi!" A voice issued from behind the bar, "Sir, do I need to ask you to leave?"

Erik became painfully aware that the eyes of every person in the tavern were now fixated on him. The three whores around him stared, disgust and fear written all over their faces. He straightened, throwing his cloak to the side. Smiling pleasantly, every word laced with poison, he explained.

"No, _misieur_, that will not be necessary. I was simply in the process of deterring your . . . women. I find their advancement and offering of services . . ." he glanced to the woman he had thrown. Lips curling, he threw the word in her direction: "_Repulsive_." Looking back at the bartender, he lowered himself into a bow. "I do apologize for the interruption. You can rest assured that it will not happen again."

The bartender's eyes lit with recognition. "Ah, forgive me. I did not realize it was you, sir. Normally you don a hood, see." He beckoned for Erik to sit at the counter, to which Erik obliged with a flick of his cloak. As soon as he sat, the ruckus resumed, and the incident was forgotten in seconds.

"You needn't act in such a manner with the ladies," the bartender sighed, pouring Erik a glass of choice whiskey. "They're just doing their job, after all."

"_Ladies!_" Erik scoffed, Christine's enchanting brown eyes flashing through his mind. "They are disgustingly far from the sorts." Glowering, he took a long drink from his glass, welcoming the burn.

The bartender, a man named Enzo, shook his head as he plucked up a glass and began to clean it. "Most of the men who come into my bar have no complaints."

"Because those _men _have never known a true lady."

"What do you expect, Bastien? They're men of labor and poverty! They know nothing else."

Erik's lips twitched at the use of his alias. "No," he whispered, bringing the glass to his lips, "I suppose they do not." Christine smiled in his memory, mouth pressing against his, tongue parting his lips . . .

The glass took the place of her mouth as Erik took a hearty gulp of whisky. Standing abruptly, he nodded at Enzo. "Please bring me another when I have emptied this glass, and do not stop there. I do not plan to feel _anything _by the time I leave tonight."

Enzo scowled. "You'll drink yourself to death one of these days, Bastien."

Erik turned quickly, gliding across the room. _If only I were so lucky, _he thought, sliding into his normal booth at the darkened back corner of the bar. He took another drink and pinched the skin of his forehead, teeth clenched against the barrage of memories and the pain they brought with them. He sat that way for several moments, his entire body tense, until the memories began to blur behind the curtain of alcohol once again. In his mind, Christine walked away from him, pulling all of his pain with her.

He couldn't stop the sigh of relief as he downed the rest of his glass. Enzo nodded in his direction and filled another drink dutifully. It was while the burly bartender was picking his way through the crowd that Erik's impeccable hearing snagged a piece of conversation that ran his blood cold.

" . . . de Chagny family . . . Yeah . . ."

His eyes blazed at the mention of the de Chagny name. His hands seized up, grasping the glass in raw fury. He darted his eyes back and forth, searching feverishly for the man who had mentioned the name.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost," Enzo interrupted, placing the fresh glass in front of Erik, who ignored him pointedly. Quickly realizing that he would get no response from the brooding man, Enzo sighed and returned to the bar, glancing over his shoulder.

Erik had finally found the one who had spoken, and now he was fully focused on the conversation.

"You joking me, Victor? That's gotta be a rumor."

The man called Victor raised his glass, beer sloshing over his fist. "I'm telling you, I saw it with my own two eyes! There were flames everywhere, you could see them for miles! Not to mention the smoke made my bloody eyes water all night . . ." He took a large swallow from his glass, wiping his moustache on a filthy sleeve. "There were workers rescuing maids an' butlers an' whatnot through the night. The mansion had a lot innit to burn!" He looked around pointedly at his drinking friends. "They lost a lot of people, including the Vicomte himself, and I hear they still haven't located the Vicomtess."

Erik was on his feet before he could even think. Blind horror driving his every move, he stormed across the room and grabbed the man by the collar, raising him out of his chair with inhuman strength.

"_You LIE!_" He roared, causing a blanket of deafening silence to fall on the room.

Victor choked in bewilderment, dropping his beer. The glass broke against the cobblestone, the fermented liquid sloshing against Erik's shoes. Clawing at the iron grip around his collar, Victor cried out, "It's the truth, I swear it!" Gasping for breath, he added, "My boss an' I had a job to do out that way! We seen it! I promise!"

"And Christine?" Erik snarled, shaking the man.

"The Vicomtess?! Lady de Chagny hasn't been found! Not even a trace of her body! I'm telling you – I –,"

The crowd seemed to come to their senses at that moment, leaping to their feet and converging on Erik with angry shouts. However, before they could lay so much as a finger on him, he had released Victor and was flying for the exit. Tossing the entire bag of coins onto the counter, he slammed the door open with enough force to rattle the building. The customers heard the piercing neigh of a horse, and as soon as he came, he was gone.

Christine was at the forefront of Erik's mind, and he now allowed her to stay. Victor's words rang in his head over and over:

"Lady de Chagny hasn't been found - not even a trace of her body!"

Squeezing Cesar's sides with his knees, he guided him furiously through the streets.

He had lost her twice . . . three times was unbearable. Unthinkable. He would surely have no reason left to dwell on this tortuous earth.

"Christine," he whispered, her name caressing over his tongue. He had not spoken it since he had left her . . . until this night.

_She must be alive._

**Angst. So much Erik angst. **

**There you have it, folks. A setup for a grand story! Please review and let me know what you think. I thrive on constructive criticism. **

**Just so you all know, this story has a plan and is outlined to completion. I have no intention of abandoning it. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Welcome back, folks! This chapter goes back a little in time (not much, just a day or so) to get Christine's perspective on everything. Seeing as Erik's perspective is much more fun to write, I didn't enjoy this nearly as much . . . But I am growing to like Christine more. Read on, my lovelies. **

It was a restless night. The dark halls loomed maliciously overhead, and Christine could hardly bear to gaze into their depths as she traversed the house in a despondent trance. It was not an unusual event, being unable to sleep. No, unfortunately, she had rarely had a solemn night's rest in almost two years. Though the darkness was not much better than her dreams, she still preferred black shadows over the scenes that danced in her sleep.

Her breast heaved in a deep sigh as she reached her favorite window seat. Pulling her night slip with a weak tug, she settled down into the deep cushions and lavish pillows, staring out into the moonless sky, lit only with small flickers of starlight. She absently pulled a blanket over her bare legs as her eyes glazed over, blocking the memories that flooded her brain.

She was happy here. Raoul treated her so wonderfully . . . He was the husband that women would die for. She had everything that she needed. Her armoire was full to the brim with the latest fashion, she never had to touch an oven, maids came to her every whim, she could purchase whatever she wanted, she had land plenty to wander, and her husband loved her dearly and flaunted her at every chance he got. There was simply too much to place on a single list; her blessings were many.

Yes, life was perfect. But it was empty. It had no substance. It was the same day, every day. As much as she wanted to vehemently deny it, she knew how much she missed music. Ever since they had escaped the opera house that dreadful night, Raoul had avoided music as if it were a deathly plague upon his ears. He could not bear the thought of the Opera Ghost and the influence the elusive man had made on his wife's young life. It drove him mad. And so, Christine did not sing in the open. She was a caged bird, her hollow song empty and lifeless, almost nonexistent.

It was on these sleepless nights that she would wait eagerly for Raoul to drift off. Once he was surely sleeping, she would slip carefully from beneath the blankets, wrap a night slip around her trembling body, and carefully ease the door open just wide enough to creep through without a sound. She was then free to wander as she pleased, seeing as the servants were also holed up in their quarters.

She had found this windowsill her second week in the mansion. She had awoken in a fevered sweat, Erik's gleaming eyes and seductive voice still taunting her mind. She had left the room in a hurry, explaining to a worried Raoul that the toilet was calling her name desperately. It was that first night that she had found her spot. Covered in illustrious pillows, she discovered that once the curtain was drawn over her, it made for a quiet private studio in which she could practice – albeit very quietly. The songs she sung were her only comfort in these times of crushing loneliness, and this was the only opportunity she ever had to practice and exercise her neglected voice.

It was also the only time she ever allowed herself to think about Erik . . . and in those times, she missed him so badly that it ached.

It was such a strange feeling to miss a man who had committed so many terrible acts in the past. He had murdered, tortured, hypnotized, kidnapped, and God knows what else . . . His sins were many and tremendous.

And yet, she could not stop thinking of her fallen Angel. His voice was something she could never hope to forget. His beautiful eyes were stamped on her memory. The feeling of his touch, his fingertips skimming her neck and the plane of her chest, still tingled on her skin. The warmth of his lips against hers was an eternal torment. The taste of his mouth was ever present on her tongue . . .

Exhaling heavily, Christine dropped her head against the wall with a dull thud. She wished she had never returned to him that night, that fateful night filled with passion, pleasure, and raw, untamed music. Delving further, she wished she had never known Erik in the first place.

_No, _she thought to herself solemnly. _You know that's a lie. _

Pulling her knees to her chest, she filled her lungs with air and sang gently into the still night, angelic voice filling her small hideout.

"_Angel of Music, you deceived me . . ._"

Tears sprung unwillingly to her eyes as the image of Erik filled her mind. He had been standing in the lake at that moment, and she had seen how her words had cut him, his eyes filling with hurt and further betrayal.

Blinking fiercely, she tried her best to force her tears back, but her efforts were futile. The hot droplets overflowed, as they did every night. Try as she might, she could not deny that in the darkness of the night, her heart and soul longed for Erik and all his imperfections.

But he had left her on thatnight full of passion, and she had awoken to an empty bed and a gaping hole in her heart Through his leaving, he had made it clear that she had hurt him far too much to deserve his returned love and devotion.

Breath shuddering, she sang into the silence once again.

"_I woke to swear my love, but found you gone instead._"

Allowing her voice to halt, she remembered the way her heart had ached when she had risen from sleep to find that Erik had vanished, leaving her alone in his lair. He had left her a note of goodbye, urging her to return to Raoul. The words had been cold and emotionless, explaining that he was leaving Paris for a new beginning. He did not wish for her to follow. This had single-handedly obliterating her hopes of having a life with Erik.

Deep in thought, Christine suddenly caught a glitter of movement out of the corner of her eye. Releasing her knees quickly, she crawled to the window curiously, nose almost pressing against the cool glass. Squinting, she pulled her sleeve to the window and scrubbed the fog from her breath away. She managed to make out what seemed to be several lantern lights bobbing over the grounds.

Confusion, and then fear, touched Christine's brow. It was the middle of the night, an ungodly hour! Who were these people, and why were they roaming the de Chagny grounds at this time?

Filled with the need to tell her husband, Christine backed away from the window hastily, parting the thick curtains and leaping from her hiding spot clumsily. She pulled her slip closer and jogged down the hallway, feet padding softly against the polished marble. Her heart rate was increasing steadily. Slight panic was knotting her stomach. She did not have the faintest clue about what was going on, but she knew in her gut that something was very, _very _wrong.

She burst through the bedroom doors unceremoniously, rushing to Raoul's side quickly. "Raoul!" She cried, "Raoul, wake up!" she placed both hands on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

Raoul's breathing hitched, and he jumped slightly. His eyes fluttered open slowly. Once he caught sight of Christine, he sat up quickly and took her arm, trying to focus through a sleepy haze. "Christine?" he mumbled, voice hoarse, "Darling, what is it?" He reached out and touched her cheek softly.

Guilt raced through her heart as she realized that she had been thinking of another man not two minutes prior. Shaking those feelings away, she said, "Raoul, something strange is happening." Her voice trembled slightly. "I couldn't sleep, so I was walking the halls, and I saw something outside!" Releasing his arm, she walked to the window and parted the curtain only slightly, glancing out into the darkness.

The crowd was now closer. There were a lot of lanterns, and she could make out the muffled sounds of their shouts and bursts of crude laughter.

Raoul was by her side in an instant, taking a brief moment to glance through the parted curtain. Inhaling sharply, his hands tightened into fists.

"Christine," he said, voice cold, "you need to get somewhere safe. Now." He whirled around, running to the armoire and quickly yanking trousers and a belt from their shelves.

The blood drained from Christine's face. "Raoul, what's going on?"

Raoul sounded almost frantic in his reply. "I was afraid this would happen. There have been incidents occurring around Paris - around the country, if I'm not mistaken. Maybe even the world." He paused long enough to strap his scabbard to his belt. "Christine, I haven't told you much because I haven't wanted to worry you . . . The recession is worse than you think. It's very bad, darling, and people are panicking. They are beginning to blame the wealthy." He rushed across the room and grabbed his boots, sitting down heavily to pull them on.

Christine's nausea caused her stomach to churn. She stared out over the crowd of lights, which now began to look more and more like an angry mob.

"Christine . . . people are scared." Raoul sounded as if he were speaking to himself. "Their money has no worth. People are losing their jobs by the hundreds. They can't purchase food. Farmers can't afford to tend their crops. The only thing that still has worth is gold - and not every common person just has that lying around. They are at risk of losing everything." Standing, he took his wife by the hand and pulled her from the room with haste. "I will take you to the cellar," he said, voice taught, "it is the safest we have; they will not think to look there."

Christine balked in defiance. "No, I need to stay with you!" Her panic began to force its way up her throat. "I can't leave you alone! I don't want you to leave me!" Hot anxiety rushed through her body. This was happening far too quickly!

Raoul stopped in his tracks, releasing her hand to grab her by the shoulders. He looked into her eyes. "Christine. Please. You need to be safe. I cannot stand to lose you." He then leaned forward and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips, effectively silencing any further attempt to argue.

Christine stumbled along as he pulled her from the room, baffled by the finality that had been in his voice. _Lose me? _She thought, _This must be serious. _

They were silent until Raoul reached the servant quarter's door, pounding on its polished surface. He hardly waited for anyone to answer before he was knocking on the next door, then the next, and the next. Servants began to emerge, rubbing the sleep blearily from their eyes. Raoul began to bark orders.

"Boy!" he called, pointing to a young stable lad who had just emerged from his quarters. The child jumped to attention, pushing to the front of the crowd.

At that moment, a window shattered behind them. A few servants screamed in fright as a large stone clattered to the floor, a dark splotch among the glittering glass. Suddenly, the calls and jeers from the mob were loud and terribly audible.

Raoul's sense of urgency heightened considerably. Seizing the boy by the shoulder, he commanded, "Get down to the stables. Go through the back door, don't let them see you. Take Atlas and get to the constable as fast as you can!"

The boy's eyes widened like saucer plates. "_Atlas, _Sir? _Your _horse?!"

"Yes!" Raoul snapped, giving the lad a push start, "now _go_!"

He took off running obediently.

The servants had been reduced to panic. Raoul's voice raised above the chaos.

"EVERYONE!" he boomed, raising his hands. Their anxious cries stopped all at once. He nodded in approval. "This is serious," he began, "you all need to get out of here. Find the cellars or get to the servant's tunnels beneath the mansion." He pointed at a couple of young men standing at the front of the crowd. "I need you two to come with me."

They nodded, stepping forward nervously.

Skimming the crowd, Raoul picked out the face he was searching for and called to her.

"Agathe!"

She came forward slowly. "Yes, sir?"

Raoul pulled Christine forward gently. "I have a special task for you." He glanced down at his wife, worry heavy on his brow. Kissing her hand, he said, "I need you to escort Christine to the cellars."

Christine shook her head slightly, mouthing the word _no_.

Agathe curtsied briefly, head bowed. "It would be my honor, sir!"

Christine had just taken a step forward when the noise of the mob swelled into a roar. Suddenly, all hell broke loose when a bottle was thrown through the shattered window, fire streaming from its gleaming neck. It shattered against the far wall, splattering alcohol along the wallpaper and causing all nearby surfaces to explode into flames.

Absolute chaos erupted among the servants. They began to run, clawing and digging to get through the sea of panicking bodies. Raoul released Christine, beckoning to the two servant men standing at the ready. "Now, Agathe!" he barked, motioning for them to escape. Eyes boring into Christine's, his voice broke painfully as he cried out one last time.

"Christine, I love you!"

And he was gone, sprinting down the hallway with the two men hot on his heels.

Christine hardly had time to think before Agathe was pulling her urgently. "Come, Madame," she said, "let's get you out of here!"

Christine nodded numbly, forcing her body to move. She and Agathe broke into a jog, instinctively weaving in and out of the flames that were hungrily consuming everything in sight.

Agathe was horrified at the damage ravaging the home of the family she had served for generations. Why would someone do this? What had caused their anger?

The old woman coughed haggardly, causing her to stumble. The smoke was thick.

"Cover your nose and mouth, Madame!" she called back to Christine. "Do not inhale the smoke!"

Christine obeyed, eyes stinging. She followed Agathe in a daze. Everything had happened so quickly . . . How had this happened . . .

The pair made their way desperately through the rubble. Agathe knew exactly where to go. Soon, Christine realized that she was making for the back door of the mansion. A smidge of relief twanged in her heart; the smoke was becoming unbearable. She didn't know if she could make it much longer, and she had no idea how valiant Agathe hadn't collapsed from the toxic air.

They finally made it to the main staircase that led to the rear doors. Agathe's grip on Christine's hand tightened reassuringly. They ran down the stairs hastily, lifting their gowns in unison as to avoid tripping in their fevered rush. Christine's lungs were burning violently, and her vision began to grow hazy as they leapt across the floor, running for the door. She could see it at the end of the hall; it was wide open, surely left open by desperate escapee servants.

Agathe fell to her knees at that moment, letting out a startled cry as her screaming joints hit the marble floor. Christine skittered to a halt. "_Agathe_!" Stooping clumsily, she took the old woman by her frail arm and pulled her to her feet. They stumbled towards the door together, coughing and wheezing through their sleeves.

The trek to the end of the hall felt like an eternity, and Christine practically threw herself from the house. Her and Agathe burst from the doorway, stumbling forward and falling onto the grass. They both gasped for air, crawling hurriedly from the sweltering wind rushing from the mansion.

She had hardly had a chance to catch her fleeting breath when she heard a loud voice. Her heart rate spiked higher than she believed possible.

"Well, well, well . . . What do we have here?"

A calloused hand grabbed Christine by the upper arm, pulling her roughly to her feet with a small cry that erupted into harsh coughs. When she was standing, she made eye contact with a rather normal looking man. His cracked lips curled up into a sneer. "Well I'll be damned. It's the Countess."

Christine thrashed against him, small fist contacting his face. "Let me _go_!" she yelped, trying to elicit more strength from her trembling frame.

The man grumbled with mocking laughter, pulling her small body against his burly chest. He reeked of alcohol and pungent body odor. Christine wrinkled her nose, resisting the urge to retch; even the smoke couldn't block the horrid stench.

"You are a bit of a spitfire, aintcha?" the man asked, hand slipping around her waist suggestively. "I like that."

"OI!" another voice called out across the lawn. Christine almost cried in relief when the man's hands left her body. "You know the rules! The Countess belongs to the boss!"

The ruddy man looked Christine up and down, eyes heavy with filthy lust. Grumbling, he fumbled around his belt, pulling a dirty hatchet from its sheath.

"Pardon me, ma'am," he said, lowering himself in a mocking bow. "I'm just a humble thief, after all."

Without further words, he pulled a grubby sack from his pocket. Before Christine could react, he pulled the sack over her and struck her in the back of the head with the handle of the hatchet. Everything went black.

**In 1973, the Great Depression began around the world. It didn't just impact the US. France was hit pretty dang hard. **

**If you haven't listened to the song "Beneath A Moonless Sky", I highly recommend doing that! It's from Love Never Dies. I am **_**not **_**a fan of that production, but I do love that song! I'm also a fan of Christine returning to Erik the night before her wedding . . . hehe. We will be visiting that night later in this phic. I've always wanted to portray how it happens in my mind. **

**Sorry for the long update time! I'm a student taking 22 credits at the moment. Homework is consuming, as is class. Thanks for your patience! **

**I can't wait to get back to Erik for the next little while!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Welcome back, guys. We're returning to Erik's point of view, and boy am I glad. I LOVE writing from his perspective! **

**Thank you to my new story followers. Welcome, and thanks for coming along! **

**Here we go!**

Cesar's eager whinny pierced the night sky as he and Erik crested the hillside with a speed known only by those in the direst of circumstances. Tonight was dire, indeed.

Erik inhaled sharply and pulled back on the reigns, bringing a reluctant Cesar to a skidding halt.

Just over the hill stood the De Chagny manor – or what was left of it – bathed in the glow of smoldering embers. It had been reduced to a hulking mess, smoke still pouring from the gaping holes that were once elegant windows. The grass around it was charred black. The stone walls dripped molten lead from the wilting rooftop. The acrid smell of burning materials stung his nose. There were people running about the grounds, tirelessly working to suppress the low and hungry flames.

The world spun before Erik's eyes. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to withdraw into another bottle of whiskey. His emotions were raging beyond anything he had ever experienced. Fear, horror, anxiety, sadness – they were all bundled into a destructive mallet, colliding mercilessly against his heart. It made him feel decisively ill.

Overwhelmed by sudden, violent nausea, Erik threw his leg over Cesar, stumbling to the ground as he succumbed to a wave of vertigo. He fell to his knees and retched violently, amber whiskey burning its way up his esophagus. Cesar danced around him, whickering nervously at his master's discomfort.

"Easy," Erik muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He remained on the grass, knees dampened by the wet soil. Christine swam in his vision, her enchanting smile sending pangs of agony through his entire body. His arms trembled. The man had not lied.

He inhaled deeply. Grasping for the small island of sanity that valiantly resided in his conscious, he stood on shaking legs and reached for Cesar's reins. He swung up into the saddle once again, ignoring the acidic taste in his mouth and the throbbing in his temple.

Cesar responded eagerly as Erik dug into his sides once again. They descended the small hill quickly, approaching the oblivious workers with ghostly speed. It wasn't until they were almost on top of one particular man that he yelled in astonishment as the gleaming black horse slid to a stop a mere two feet from where he stood.

Erik watched as the man's eyes flickered in panic, examining the features of his face. "Good evening," he began, latching his emerald gaze on the man's line of vision. Making a great effort to disguise the near desperation in his voice, he cleared his throat. "I'm here to inquire about the whereabouts of Christine Daae."

The man gawked. "Madame De Chagny?" He glared up at Erik suspiciously. "What's it to you, miseur?"

Erik snapped for a split second, instinctively reaching for his Punjab lasso. Fury blared in his eyes, causing the man to take a staggering step backwards.

"My business is my business and mine alone," Erik seethed. "If you value your life, I suggest you answer my question, _sir_." Cesar pawed at the ground impatiently, perfectly on cue.

The man cowered. "Apologies, I meant no harm. I've just been hired to help here, I don't know much . . . but I do know that both the Count and the Countess have not been found . . . and it's too dangerous to go inside to search their whereabouts . . ."

"Thank you," Erik curtly replied, turning Cesar towards the ravaged building.

The man's jaw dropped in honest disbelief. "Sir, you're not thinking of entering?!"

Erik ignored the pointed question, urging Cesar forward with a mere word of guidance. The worker shook his head incredulously, running a soot ridden hand through his ragged hair as the strange, phantom like man and his horse galloped for the manor.

"Hopeless," he muttered, stooping to pick up the bucket once again.

Erik practically flew from Cesar's back when they approached the front entrance to the De Chagny house. He stormed up the marble steps at an impressive rate, shoulders shrugging to shed the heavy cloak weighing him down. Pure adrenaline and determination flooded his veins in a deafening torrent. He barely even registered the people trying to stop him until one seized him by the shoulder with a calloused hand. He snatched the man's wrist with lightning reflexes, throwing it off with little afterthought.

The group of workers stood by and watched in horror as Erik took a deep breath and threw the manor doors wide, unleashing an abhorrent cloud of smoke into which he plunged with stout determination.

While what the workers had seen may have appeared stupidly heroic, it was far from the case. Erik was consumed by a selfish need, a need to discover the whereabouts of Christine . . . For if she were gone, he found it was quite about time for him to take his leave of this cruel world and join her in death. A world without Christine was worse than the very depths of hell, a place which he knew he was surely bound.

The fire had gutted the manor, leaving only stone and ember coals. Small flames still licked at small pieces of tinder hungrily, desperate to keep their insatiable appetite satisfied. There was no shortage of thick smoke. Without a second thought, Erik tore a sleeve from his white tunic, folding it to thicken the layers and tying it around his head to protect his mouth and nose.

He could feel the heat through the thick soles of his boots. Glancing around, he tried to see through the billowing clouds and found no success. It would be better to move and search.

Inhaling carefully, he let out a rugged cry. "_Christine_?!"

Even in his fright, her name was silk against his lips.

Stepping forward, he maneuvered carefully around the fallen rubble and scorching coals. Squinting, he made out the shape of the grand staircase – surely it led to the living quarters on the upper floor, to her room that she shared with Raoul . . .

Gritting his teeth, Erik tried to ignore the vision that appeared in his head of the Vicomte lying over Christine, defiling her with his touch and stealing her pleasure with his passion. Shaking his head violently, he focused on the task at hand and began to traverse the perilous staircase lined with rubble.

"Christine!" His voice was masked by the smoke that invaded his lungs. Despite his makeshift facemask, it scorched its way down his esophagus and into his lungs, causing him to cough violently. Doubling over, he made the mistake of grabbing the wall for support; it scorched his skin. He snatched his hand back, curses spilling from his mouth between violent hacks.

His throat was now ablaze with scalding pain. Ignoring it, he pressed forward, careful to avoid staying in one spot for too long. As he approached the top of the staircase, he stumbled over what had appeared to be a fallen beam. However, as he caught his footing, he noticed the rancid smell of burnt flesh. Looking down, he saw a human body. His heart stopped. It couldn't be . . .

He squatted down quickly, rather unperturbed by the sight of a dead person. He had seen countless of them in his lifetime. But . . . if it were her . . .

He reached down and touched the charred skin of the body, pulling back quickly when it sloughed off under the soft pressure. Nothing remained of the clothing or hair this person had once possessed. It could be any one . . . His heart was throbbing painfully loud in his chest. He could feel it throughout every limb.

_Please, don't let it be her. _

Taking the shoulder and leg of the carcass, he grunted and flipped it on its back, trying to ignore the skin falling apart under his hands.

Never in his life had he been so relieved to see male genitalia. He almost fell over in sweet repose.

It wasn't her.

Standing shakily, he continued up the staircase, calling her name as best he could. He pushed down charred remnants of doors, glancing in every room and every closet to see if she was there. He encountered a few more bodies of what he presumed were doomed servants who had not made it out. Those he ignored in his search.

It was unbearable in the manor. He had broken out in a feverish sweat. It dripped into his eyes and mouth, causing his vision to swim. He felt as if he would faint. He had no idea where he had been or where he was going. His feet burned with blisters, and his scorched hand screamed for relief. More than once he opened a door only to be blasted with boiling air and licking flames. But he persisted, whether out of dogged determination or sheer dedication, he knew not.

He finally found himself in a hallway that was relatively untouched, albeit full to the brim with smoke. Hope stirred in his chest. Walking as quickly as he could manage, he approached the grand doors at the end of the hall looming before his eyes. This had to have been her quarters . . .

He gently tapped the doorknob before entering, making sure that the fire was not raging in the room. When he affirmed that it was safe, he entered, quickly closing the door after himself.

It was her room. Her smell assaulted his nose through the stench of smoke. It was almost enough to send him reeling. He steeled himself and entered cautiously.

It was a glorious room. The walls were printed in an exceedingly fine manner. The furniture was the finest of mahoganies, interlaid with gold and silver. The carpet was lush, the draperies elegant. The bed . . .

Erik ignored that particular piece, despite its beauty.

"Christine?" he called gently, voice hoarse. Crossing the room, he opened a large armoire.

Her clothing was hung neatly in a row, organized by occasion and elegance. Erik froze where he stood, overcome with longing. Reaching tentatively, he caressed the fabric of a beautiful night gown. Eyes stinging, he pulled his torn sleeve from his nose and drew the silky fabric from its place among the others. He dropped his face into it almost reverently, overwhelmed by her lingering scent. It was almost intoxicating . . . he had not smelled anything quite as beautiful since the night she had returned to him.

He was rudely yanked from his reverie when a low moan sounded behind him. Dropping the dress, Erik whirled and drew his sword from its scabbard, golden skull glinting menacingly.

"Who's there?!" he snapped, all aches and pains forgotten.

No response.

Breath shallow, Erik crept forward with catlike agility, making no sound. Another groan sounded from the end of the room. Grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, Erik exhaled loudly.

"If you would be so kind to reveal yourself, I may consider sparing your life," he rasped, nearing the bed. The noise was coming from the other side, which had not been visible upon his entry. He bared his teeth and rounded the corner, only to freeze in his tracks.

It was the damned Vicomte. He was alive.

**OOOOOoooooooo, cliffhanger. Raoul has survived the damage. I've been very excited to relate the incredibly awkward and heated conversation between these two. Talk about testosterone. The next chapter is already halfway done, so you guys won't have to wait too long. **

**As always, thank you for following. If there are any mistakes, let me know! I'm going at this alone. **

**Thank you!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Welcome back, everyone! Here it is, the first tense exchange between our two boys. Can you blame them for despising each other? **

Raoul eyes slowly fluttered open. He seemed feverish and confused, and it took a moment before he noticed Erik. Once he saw the bone white mask, shock and horror spread quickly on his face. "_You_!" he snarled, struggling to rise. "_You _did this!"

Erik cocked his head, a faint scowl hanging from his brow. "Me?" he asked, touching his chest lightly. How dare this fool make such accusations against him. It made Erik's blood boil. He had to resist the urge to lunge forward and strangle him with his bare hands. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to calm down somewhat.

Scoffing audibly, he glared at Raoul. "Honestly, de Chagny," he spat, sheathing his sword, "do you truly believe I would waste my precious time to plan something as elaborate as this? Pray, use your damn brain, if you have such a thing, and truly think: Would I ever risk Christine's happiness in a manner such as _this_?!" He threw his arms wide, thin smoke whirling in response to the sudden movement. Laughing in a mocking manner, he added, "We never truly had the chance to speak, since you so graciously invaded my lair and destroyed every ounce of my peace; I assume you believe me to be a monster." His eyes glinted dangerously in the faint light. "This is true. However, I would never dream of hurting Christine. You are not worth my time."

Raoul's eyes gleamed with hatred for the man standing before him. His anger showed in every word. "Oh, my apologies. I didn't realize the murderous Phantom of the Opera had anyone but himself in his best interests!"

Heat rushed through Erik's body. He took a step forward, eyes darkened. "Do _not _call me that," he murmured, withdrawing his sword once again. "I have half a mind to kill you where you lie, de Chagny. You are, after all, the main perpetrator of my agonies and regrets . . . and you look as if you are knocking on death's door. I would honestly be doing you a service" Pressing the gleaming blade to Raoul's chest, he stared straight into his eyes, daring him to speak further.

"You speak of perpetrating agonies and regrets," Raoul responded flippantly, "when you know nothing of the torment _you _have caused _me _over these years."

Erik snorted. "Pray tell, dear Vicomte, how I have managed to ail you when I have kept my distance since your timely departure from my opera house? I have done nothing."

It was Raoul's turn to scoff. "You have haunted my every step since I left on that night," he rebuked. "You, the Phantom, who caused my wife so much trauma. You, the corrupt Angel of Music, who instilled much of himself in Christine's very personality, hypnotizing her and attempting to take advantage of her on several occasions. You caused her so much pain, and I cannot count the nights she awoke from her sleep, sobbing from the nightmares that you frequently haunted. I can never help but notice the dark shadow that lingers behind her eyes. You hurt her immensely, and I cannot stand the way her spirits lift when she thinks of you. Ever since we were wed, she has been an utterly different person . . . it's more than I can bear, knowing that an evil man has twisted her mind so."

Erik stared at Raoul, rendered speechless. His heart raced knowing how much pain he had caused his Christine. He knew what he had done. But, he had imagined she would have healed at least somewhat over the past few years. Licking his lips, he searched for words, fumbling over his thoughts. "Surely she has forgotten me by now," he hissed, withdrawing the sword. "After all, her dearknight in shining armor has given her nothing but the best. How can a cursed demon compare to someone as saintly as you, dear Vicomte?"

"I like to think that she has cast you out of her mind," Raoul retorted, grasping his side and flinching. Erik vaguely noted the blood pooling under the Count's fingers. "However," Raoul continued, "I know deep down that she still thinks of you. Music is a part of her soul. When we were married, she flinched at the mere note of a song. She rarely sung, and when she did, her eyes showed that she was thinking of you. And so, I took it from our lives, hoping that it would help. But I fear I only served to trap her . . . like a songbird in a cage."

Erik felt a pang of sadness. Imaging a voice as lovely as Christine's going to waste was absolutely criminal. The ten years he had spent teaching her – gone. He hated the Vicomte all the more for it. "Music," he breathed, "is not something that can be taken from someone like loot in a chest. It resides in the heart and speaks through the soul. How could you have done this?" Frustration rang clear in his voice.

"I had no choice!" Raoul yelled, taking Erik by surprise. "I was competing for my wife's love! Competing against a man who I believed to be dead – until now!" He pushed himself up into a sitting position, causing the crimson blossom on his blouse to spread. "I watched your insanity shine on that night in the caverns of the opera house. Do you truly think I want my wife thinking of you? And I can't seem to be rid of you . . . Pray tell, how did you survive the fire?"

Erik smirked. "Do you really want to have this discussion in your _own _burning manor, Vicomte? Besides that, I am not here for you. I am here to ensure Christine's safety." Deciding he was rather done with this conversation, he turned brusquely, replacing the sleeve over his nose and mouth and sheathing his sword.

"She hasn't been found?" Raoul asked, panic stricken.

"No."

"But – I watched her leave, she was with Agathe, she _must _be safe!"

"Agathe?" Erik turned to face Raoul again.

"A servant who's been in my family for generations. She was to take Christine to the cellars. I would trust her with my own life."

Erik stared the man down incredulously. "Allow me to understand. You had, in your company, the most beautiful creature to ever grace this earth, a goddess among mortals . . . and you pawned her off to someone else in the face of danger?"

Raoul's eyes turned stony. "How dare you."

"How dare _I_? No, it is not I who should dare, Vicomte. If I were the one who had her by my side, I would never have left her with a mere servant! I would have stayed with her!"

"Do not taunt me with such notions! I wanted nothing more than to stay with her!"

"And yet, here you are! Quite a husband you amounted to be, Vicomte."

"Your accusations are ill founded. I love her with my entire being."

"AND I LOVED HER FIRST!" Erik's voice rang with intense power around the room, effectively silencing Raoul. The hissing of distant flames followed Erik's echoes. The men glared at each other from across the room, both trembling with anger.

Erik wanted nothing more than to toss a lasso around the Vicomte's neck and watch him struggle for life. Inhaling deeply, he spoke again. "I taught her," he said quietly, "for ten years. I looked after her. I ensured her safety. I watched her grow, and my love for her grew likewise with each passing day. I gave her my music . . ." He trailed off for a moment, growing distant. It was a moment before he was back in the present. He turned away from Raoul. "I owe you no explanation. Christine is my only priority here. Seeing as you are perfectly incapable of protecting her, I will take my leave to find her."

"You would leave me to die?" Raoul exclaimed, hardly surprised.

"Would you prefer that I kill you myself?" Erik asked. "That can be arranged, I assure you." He placed a hand over the scabbard on his belt.

Raoul felt a faint tinge of fear. He knew that this man would not hesitate to slaughter him where he sat. He gripped his side tightly, knowing that he could never escape on his own. His situation was dire. He could either stay and die or stand in the face of utter humiliation and live another day to find his wife. Clenching his jaw, muscles working visibly in his face, he straightened up and looked Erik directly in the eyes. "Please. Take me with you."

Erik stared back, amusement gleaming in his emerald irises. "Take you with me? Are you daft? You could not pay me enough money in the world to save your life, de Chagny." He turned away, reaching out to take hold of the doorknob.

"It's not for me," Raoul protested. "It's for Christine."

Erik bared his teeth and cursed under his breath.

His pause was enough to encourage further explanation. Raoul let out a pained sigh. "I know who did this. The man behind it is a menace to society. I'm willing to bet that he has taken her . . . or ordered men to take her for him." He dropped his face into his hands, despair evident in his words. "This recession is far reaching. You can't do anything without offending someone these days. . . Someone such as yourself would never understand."

Erik strode to Raoul's side again, looming over him menacingly. Without any words, he stooped down and roughly grabbed the Count behind the back and under the legs, lifting him effortlessly from the ground. His lean, muscular form hardly strained under the burden.

"First of all," he growled, thoroughly unhappy at the prospect of rescuing this waste of a man, "my name is Erik. I am not a ghost, nor a phantom. Second, I am _not _doing this for you." He stormed across the room, uncaring of whether Raoul was in pain. "Christine is the only one who matters. I know she cares for you. If I were to be the cause of her misery – even indirectly through your death – I could never forgive myself." He stopped at the door, maneuvering to reach the doorknob. "Third," he muttered, "I will be the one to find Christine."

Raoul had opened his mouth to protest, but Erik opened the door at that moment, unleashing a vortex of thick smoke into the room. Raoul's voice hitched and he broke out coughing.

"Fool," Erik said plaintively. Unwilling to wait any further, he carried the Vicomte into the hallway, prepared to face the chaos of the burning manor. He followed his own tracks quickly, weaving through the debris and flames. It wasn't long before his lungs began to burn again, throat alight with blistering pain.

He shook it off, focusing on the task at hand. They arrived at the staircase much quicker than he had found it upon entry. He flew down the steps with unnatural grace, oblivious to the obstacles in his path. The body he had found earlier he pointedly ignored. Before he knew it, he was throwing the front doors open once again, emerging from the smoke like Death itself.

Gasps and cries of delight erupted in the night. Erik held his composure, stepping down the stairs carefully. He walked straight through the crowd, parting them with cool indifference, and found a spot on the grass to lie the Vicomte.

Raoul was incredibly pale and had fallen unconscious. His face was sheened with sweat, screwed into a mask of pain. The entire side of his blouse was now red with blood. Erik would have to act fast. "Step back!" he snapped impatiently at the people now swarming around them. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he whistled loudly, the high-pitched sound rising into the moonlit night. Cesar whinnied in response from a few hundred meters off, and the stallion was soon barging through the crowd to reach his master. Several people murmured in awe.

"Good boy," Erik murmured, patting Cesar on the neck. He began to rifle through the saddlebags, searching for a small leather sack that he had carried with him since his days in Persia.

"Miseur," someone from the crowd spoke cautiously, "what has happened to the Vicomte?"

Erik ignored him, throwing a variety of random supplies from the saddlebags. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He removed the flap impatiently, cursing in frustration. He had a needle, but his catgut was gone. Shoving the kit into his trousers, he pulled a small knife from his bags, seized a handful of Cesar's mane, and cut it through with one smooth gesture.

He moved to return to Raoul, only to see a large group of people surrounding the man. White-hot anger surged through him, knowing that every second lost was a second that Christine spent in potential danger. "MOVE, damnit!" he snarled impatiently, shoving a couple of people out of his way. The crowd shrank back obediently, cowering under his rage. He knelt by Raoul and ripped the shirt from his torso, revealing an ugly, uneven gash in his side.

"Knife wound," Erik muttered to himself more than anyone. "Does anyone have water?" he barked to the crowd, causing them to jump. Several leapt forward, offering their buckets to the man in the white mask. He nodded, pulling a rag from his small kit and dunking it quickly. Wringing it and setting it aside, he took the bucket and poured a slight stream of water onto the festering wound.

Raoul's eyes snapped open, a howl elicited from his cracking lips. He thrashed wildly.

"Hold him down!" Erik commanded, pressing the rag to the wound as fresh blood gushed eagerly from the skin. It was deep.

Several burly men jumped forward, pinning Raoul's arms and legs to the ground. They shifted nervously at the rough handling of the Count, glancing sideways at the strange man treating him.

Erik quickly poured more water over the wound, hoping to flush out as much contaminates as possible. Mopping the blood with the wet rag, he plunged Cesar's hairs into the bucket, rinsing them as best he could. He pulled them from the water irreverently, shaking them off and placing them on a clean rag. Hands surprisingly still and agile, he plucked a single coarse hair from the lot and threaded it through the needle.

"This is going to hurt, Vicomte," he smirked, somewhat enjoying the sickening discomfort Raoul was obviously experiencing. "Try not to make an ass of yourself." Bending over, he laced the needle through the skin with incredible dexterity.

Raoul tensed immediately. Breath hissed from his clenched jaw like steam through a kettle.

Erik worked quickly and effectively, deftly knotting the stitches as if he had done it many a time. The crowd watched with bated breath, the silence tense.

Finally, after a few agonizing moments, Erik pulled the last stitch into place and knotted it. Standing quickly, he saw that Raoul had fallen unconscious once again. "Useless," he murmured, tossing the needle back into its bag. Motioning to a nearby woman, he began to give orders.

"He has lost a large quantity of blood and is terribly dehydrated. He needs to rest. Though I've done my best, I expect an infection will develop. He will be in for the fight of his life. The wound was quite deep; we have yet to see if organs were damaged. Get him somewhere safe. Make sure he is drinking absurd amounts of water when he wakes up." Motioning for her to follow, he walked to Cesar and reached into his bags, shuffling around and pulling a bundle of dried Persian herbs from their depths. He placed them into her shaking hands. "This is a very rare herb called Esfand. It helps keep inflammation down and is a good infection inhibitor. Grind it and combine it with boiled water until it is the texture of paste. Apply and wrap the torso securely." He glanced at Raoul's body, now surrounded by eager people. "When you get him to a safe place, make sure this is one of the first things you do. You would be surprised how quickly an infection can take over."

The woman – more of a girl, really – nodded quickly.

Erik ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation, Christine leaping into his thoughts. "Has there been any sign of the Countess?" he asked the girl, intensity creeping back into his voice.

"No, sir," she replied, staring at the ground in shame. "None of us have seen her . . . Except Agathe."

Erik perked up at the familiar name. "Take me to her," he demanded, getting straight to the point.

The girl glanced at him nervously, eyes flitting to and fro. "Sir, she is very ill . . . She is not well, and I doubt she has awoken . . ."

Erik glared, his hulking, moonlight shadow engulfing her small frame. "Does it appear this concerns me?" he whispered, finally taking the filthy sleeve from his face.

The girl's eyes widened at the reveal, surprised by the mysterious man's handsome features. They perfectly matched his sultry voice and his intense intimidation. What was behind that mask? "I'll take you to her," she quickly amended, head bowing to hide the blush spreading on her cheeks.

"That's what I thought."

**Dun dun dunnnn. Erik is on the trail. **

**Thank you to my followers and reviewers! You guys make me smile. As always, let me know if you spot a mistake. I review these chapters several times before posting, but little errors have a nasty habit of hiding from me. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the delay in updating, guys! My final semester is coming to an end. That comes with a lot of tests, a lot of studying, and a lot of homework. I come home, grab something to eat, and sit down to do homework from 6 pm till 1 am. Writing is my only repose . . . along with Minecraft, lol. **

**I know this isn't much of a chapter after a long wait, but don't worry. Once this semester is truly over, you'll be getting updates weekly. **

**Be aware, Erik gets a little testy in this chapter and a bit of his language comes out. **

Erik tried his best to conceal the tremors shaking his frame. His desperation to find Christine and ensure her safety was almost overwhelming. It took every ounce of self-control _not _to snap at the girl leading him through the dark. That would surely hinder their progress. Instead, he followed her silently to a worn set of wooden steps leading up to a small log house. He stopped right behind her, noticing the shiver that ran up her spine. She rapped on the door quietly and entered immediately after.

The room beyond the door was humble and warmly lit, covered in small knick-knacks and dried flowers. The smell of cinnamon pleasantly spiced the air. A roaring fire dominated the cobblestone fireplace. In the far corner sat a small bed occupied by a frail old woman. She was so small that she appeared to be drowning in her quilt.

"This is Agathe," the servant murmured, bowing her head. "She has been unconscious since we found her on the grounds yesterday. We think she inhaled too much smoke. The fire wasn't easy on her old body."

Erik brushed past the girl, who blushed wildly when his cloak skirted her arm. Gliding to the bedside, he observed Agathe before taking a knee and pressing two fingers to her neck. A slow pulse met his touch. Sleeping. Nodding, he stood and shook her shoulder softly, trying his best to seem calm and unhurried. He realized suddenly that she reminded him somewhat of Madame Giry, whom he hadn't seen in years . . . Granted, Giry was not this old.

Ignoring the sadness in his heart, he took Agathe's other shoulder as well. When she didn't respond, he shook her a little harder, fingers digging slightly into her thin muscles.

She suddenly gasped, hands snatching Erik's arm in a grip surprisingly strong for a woman of her age. Her eyes darted around the room in confusion, finally settling on Erik's white mask. Awareness dawned on her face, anger rising in her milky eyes.

"You!" she breathed, releasing her grip as if he had struck her.

Erik was almost surprised. She knew exactly who he was. The Vicomte must have told stories. "Have we met?" he asked simply, releasing her shoulder and stepping back.

Agathe glared at him. "I always wished we never would." She looked him up and down critically. "You're the Phantom of the Opera."

The servant girl let out a small gasp behind them. It bothered Erik. "Leave," he demanded, allowing no room for argumentation. He did not need to ask again; the door clicked quickly behind her. Satisfied, he stared Agathe in the eye and began to pace like a panther in a cage. Time to get some answers.

"You've heard of me," he purred, clasping his hands behind his back. "Not many people who know of me have lived to tell the tale." He stopped before a dried bouquet of flowers, taking a wilted petal between his fingers. They were roses.

"I've heard nothing but horror stories," Agathe stated, eyeing Erik warily. "Have you come to kill me? I've heard how you killed a man in front of hundreds, dropping him like garbage among a young group of ballet women. I was also told of the time you appeared as Red Death to threaten those in the Opera House. I know how you ultimately kidnapped our Vicomtess after your horrid opera, intent on forcing her to marry you lest you killed the Vicomte."

Images of Raoul tied against the lair's gates flashed through Erik's mind, followed closely by the passionate kiss between Christine and himself. "Yes," he whispered, releasing the flower's delicate petal. "Yes . . . I did those things. And they are none of your concern." He rubbed his temple, painfully aware of his screaming migraine once again.

Agathe sniffed. "Well, miseur, Madame de Chagny's whereabouts are none of _your _concern. I demand to see Raoul this instant." She straightened importantly.

Erik turned and stared at her incredulously, fury flaring in his eyes. "Do you not understand the gravity of the situation?" he seethed, impatience hanging about him like a dark cloud. "Your precious master was trapped in the fire with a mortal wound. If it were not for me, he would be dead. He is now indisposed – and will be for quite some time! Christine is in danger, and no one has made _any_ sort of a damn effort to find her!" His anger took over for a split second, and he seized a vase of flowers from her bedside table, hurling it across the room where it shattered against the far wall. Water splattered around the room.

Agathe pursed her lips. "That was my favorite vase."

"Fuck your vase," Erik snarled. "You _need _to tell me where they have taken her, or she will never be seen again, I can promise you that!"

"I have no idea where they have taken her," the old woman retorted, sadness evident in her voice. "I lost consciousness right after they took her. There was nothing I could do. I'm old."

"I never would have guessed," Erik spat.

Agathe frowned at him. "I see your reputation lives up to its name. I don't know what my mistress always saw in you . . . rotten temper, impatient, rude," she turned her nose up, taking a whiff of the stale odor mixed with the smell of smoke, "an alcoholic . . . and deformed, to top it off."

Erik had his hand around her frail throat in a fraction of a second. "Would you like to add 'murderer' to that list, mademoiselle?" His eyes were scorching.

She was surprisingly calm. Breathing strained, she asked, "Do you really think I would trust a man like you with the safety of my countess? I love her as my own."

Erik released her, face as cold as slate. "I can see my reputation has damaged any chances of you helping me. I will find Christine, with or without your help. But remember this . . . any suffering she has endured due to your pompous behavior will be upon your head, and I will _never _forget it – Not even for the sake of an old woman." He turned and grabbed the doorknob, intent on leaving without Agathe's help. As much as he did not want to admit it to himself, her words had struck a severe blow.

"Wait," Agathe said, almost too quiet to catch. Erik halted, glancing over his shoulder. He listened to her sigh and heard the bed creak. "Look at me," she commanded. In response, he simply turned his head a mere centimeter more.

The silence hung between them for a moment, heavy and thick. Then, Agathe spoke slowly. "Do you still love her?"

Erik turned to fully face her. "I do not need to diverge such details of my feelings. You believe me a monster, I do not intend to convince you otherwise."

Something glimmered in Agathe's eyes. "Even monsters can love."

Erik stared, debating whether to cooperate. He did not enjoy being toyed with. "I love her more deeply than most mortals can ever hope to comprehend," he stated simply. "I would die for her, and I would kill for her. This is the only reason I have come. If it were not for her safety, I would gladly be drowning myself in a bottle of whiskey at this very moment." Bowing his head slightly, he opened the door and allowed the cool air to rush in. "Good day, madame."

"I believe I know where she is," Agathe replied, smoothing the blankets over her lap, "but you must promise me something."

Erik listened intently.

"Bring her home," Agathe said, voice and composure breaking. "Please don't take her from us. She has been such a blessing to everyone in this estate. Her pure heart has truly changed the lives of us who serve her . . . we love her dearly."

The words were painful to hear. "I do not intend to take her from you," Erik murmured, thinking of the night he had left her in his bed, ashamed of what he was. "She deserves much more than the likes of me. She has a wonderful life here . . . as painful for me as it is, I understand that."

Agathe marveled. This man, notorious in the Vicomte's stories for being inhuman, emotionless, and cold, stood before her broken and so painfully human. She knew in that moment that he would never hurt Christine. "Raoul is truly incapacitated?" she asked.

"Yes. He was stabbed. It will take a long time to heal."

Worry knotted her stomach. "She was taken by a group of men," she said. "I don't know who they are, but I believe this is a political problem. Before I lost consciousness, I heard them say something about the German Empire. Their French was good, but I believe that some of them were German themselves."

"The war," Erik breathed. "Did the Vicomte have a hand in it?"

Agathe raised her shoulders. "Raoul never spoke of such matters, but I know that almost every political leader was required to pay a certain sum of money after the war was over . . . most of it was paid by 1871, but Monsieur de Chagny has never been good at taking orders from other countries. This recession has most likely sparked some . . . Unsavory relationships." She looked Erik in the eye. "How is your German?"

"Anständig," Erik replied.

"Sehr gut."

Erik's lips twitched, and Agathe thought he may smile. "Thank you for your help," he said instead, bowing slowly. "I apologize for the scare I may have given you."

Agathe snorted. "I'm far too old to be scared by the likes of you." She bowed her head in his direction. "Bring her home – Pray, tell me your name?"

"Erik."

"A strong name," she nodded in approval. "Bring her home, Erik. We're all counting on you."

**Funny how a little bit of kindness can turn a person around in a second. I've always felt sad that Erik never experienced kindness – just the little bits and pieces he received from Madame Giry.**

**The war was a real deal! France tried to take over Prussia. They lost, and Prussia became the German Empire in 1871. They weren't the happiest of neighbors. **

**As always, thank you guys for the support! Let me know if there are spelling errors. Oh, and don't you worry . . . Erik will be snapping necks before you know it. **


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